BY THE TIME WE REALIZE THERE IS WAY TOO MUCH WATER IN THE CANYON, IT’S TOO LATE—ANY ROUTE OTHER THAN DOWNSTREAM NOW SEEMS UNDESIRABLE AT BEST
It’s late August when Rathman and I de- cide to run the Stikine. We’ve been checking conditions for a trip on the Homathko River, but our research shows a fair weather win- dow for more northern British Columbia— Stikine country. We don’t know anything about the water level—the only way to know this is to stand 100 feet above the river on the bridge at Highway 37. Stikine veteran Scott Lindgren calls the
two-day drive north on the Stewart Cas- siar Highway, “The longest, loneliest, most apprehensive drive that a kayaker can face.” Rathman agrees. He’s been here before. Almost two years
ago, Rathman was part of a team that put on with too much water. The trip was a real- ity check, a lesson on the raw power of the Stikine. With two horrendous swims, one of them by Austin, the team abandoned any hope of a descent and made a grueling three- day hike out. The water level at the bridge is a tough
guess. We put on and float seven kilome- ters downstream to Entrance Falls, the first rapid of the Grand Canyon. Scouting this rapid requires us to scale the 500-foot cliffs that funnel the river into a narrow chaos of whitewater. From our aerie, we can see the house-sized boulder mid-river of which it’s said, “Five feet go, one foot no.” Squinting from this height, we aren’t sure how much is showing above water. Not that it matters anymore. We are here
and we are ready. Rathman wants to face the beast that nearly killed him. I am eager to run the river I have been gripped by for so long. Paddling into Entrance Falls, I barely see
the top of the rock we scouted. Both of us have great lines through the enormous, crashing waves and our euphoria blinds us to this last potential warning sign. By the time we realize there is way too much water in the canyon, it’s too late—any route other than downstream now seems undesirable at best.
• ••
Precisely three years and 15 days later— mid-September 2010—I stood once again by the Highway 37 bridge, posing for a group shot at the infamous Stikine sign. This time the pre-trip photo would show six grinning faces—old and new friends Ric Moxon, Tay- lor Cavin, Ben Hawthorne, Cody Howard, the one and only Daz Clarkson and myself— in front of the words, WARNING Grand Canyon Of The Stikine Extremely Danger- ous Rapids Downstream Unnavigable By All Craft. I had spent a great deal of time contem- plating whether or not I would dare a second
36 RAPID EARLY SUMMER 2011
attempt. But, like Rathman before me, it was now my turn to face my demons. As first de- scent team member Lars Holbeck famously said: “I should go back someday and see if it really is as scary as I remember.” The river beneath the bridge was running
at medium flow, a much more manageable 12,000 cfs. Instead of a torrent of brown mud, the water was clear and green. With fine weather the whole time, the level re- mained consistent for
the three days we
would spend in the canyon. Even so, the whitewater was at the abso-
lute limit of what is runnable. The Stikine tested us with massive, complex puzzles like Pass or Fail, and made certain we never for- got where we were. Portaging around Site Z rapid, Daz fell
nearly 30 feet onto jagged rocks and was lucky to emerge with only cuts and bruises. Ric’s skirt imploded when he got stuck in a monster hole, causing him to swim for his life just upstream of The Wall. Entering V- Drive, Ben was scooped up by the top wave and hurled 50 feet through the air, clearing the school bus-sized hole below. Finally, I endured the most violent trash-
ing of my life in The Hole that Ate Chicago. The possibility of swimming out of The Hole through the rapids below was a nightmarish scenario and a late reminder that the river was far more powerful than I ever could be.
• ••
In the damp chill of dawn, Rathman and I agree that our best option is to head down- stream. In order to beat the flood that we fear will soon catch us up, we’ll try to paddle out of the canyon today, running the normal day two and three sections in one shot. The madness starts with the notorious Site
Z ferry, which leads straight into the Day Two Narrows, the deepest and darkest reach of
the canyon. We are survival boating,
simply reacting to the exploding masses of water—the lines don’t exist. Scouting is im- possible for most rapids and too time costly besides. We get swallowed by boils, slammed against walls and stuck in cavernous holes. The size of the features and the raw force of the water are far beyond what we imagined possible. A swim here would be fatal. I don’t see Austin. He disappeared some
time ago, and as the seconds continue to drag past, I begin to fear the worst. Should he have been ripped from his boat, there would be nothing that I could do for him. On the Stikine, you may have a team for mental support, but on the water you are on your own. At last Rathman emerges from the bottom of the rapid; he’d been stuck in a nasty pock-
et eddy with an eddy fence surging several meters high. Exhausted from this ordeal, we plunge onward and are pulled blindly into Scissors. Frequently portaged, Scissors is widely re-
garded as the most consequential rapid on the river due to the badly undercut rocks into which the current drives. Luckily for us, the undercuts are well below the rising water and we wash through unscathed. Later, we run V-Drive—indescribably massive at this level—and eventually make it to Tanzilla Slot, a five-foot-wide defile signaling the end of the immense canyon. We explode through the gap riding 20,000 cfs—well above maxi- mum recommended flow for a Stikine run. When we finish the class IV run-out be-
low the canyon, we are brothers who have gone to battle and come out the other side as changed men. Just how changed I have yet to realize. I don’t get in a kayak for nearly a year af-
ter we return from the Stikine. Once back in a boat, things aren’t the same. On difficult whitewater, I’m nowhere near as confident. It’s a long time before I regain my mental strengths and begin to charge as hard as I used to.
• •• Despite the occasional humbling beat-
down, my second round on the Everest of Rivers was as close to a perfect trip as I could have hoped. The clear, crisp autumn air made the Stikine’s already spectacular geology a little extra remarkable. Fall col- ors—the brilliant gold of trembling aspens, birch and tamarack—glowed in mesmeriz- ing patterns in the warm, low-angled light. Mountain goats skillfully climbing the steep 1,000-foot walls served as a sense of scale and put the grandeur of the place into true perspective. After returning home, memories of amaz-
ing scenery, great campfire banter and excit- ing but enjoyable rapids quelled any linger- ing nightmares from my earlier descent. I can’t help but wonder if the Stikine re-
warded me for my willingness to face its deep gorges for a second time. It wasn’t easy to overcome three years of haunting doubt, but it certainly was worth it. In returning, I was able to fully absorb the magic of the canyon and appreciate the intimacy of the experience. A trip down the Grand Canyon of the
Stikine shows our sport in all its elegance. It is a place so astonishing that every de- scent represents a new chapter in the life of a soul boater. In my case, the first descent very nearly spelled the end, but the second marked the rebirth of my paddling life. •
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